


The Darkwood Wand

by ThebeMoon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Astrology, Bad Acronyms, Cursed objects, Divination, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Fire-Breathing Chickens, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, Magical Pythons, Magical Research Surveys and Studies, Negotiation Table, Numerology, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Hermione Granger, Polyjuice Potion, Poorly Executed Seduction Techniques, Post-It Notes of Doom, Ravenclaw Culture, Scrying Mirrors, Slytherin Dungeons, Strange Tea Parties, Tarot, Vanishing Cabinets (Harry Potter), Wandlore (Harry Potter), Xylomancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29741511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThebeMoon/pseuds/ThebeMoon
Summary: Draco Malfoy is harsh and cold and hated at Hogwarts. And Draco is fine with this. He’s even casting the Vanishing Cabinet spell again, although for a much less nefarious purpose. This time he's using Harmonia Nectere Passus to link his bed with the bed of a willing witch. But something goes horribly wrong, and instead of the buzzy flirt Draco's been secretly meeting, his bed keeps delivering an extremely unamused Hermione Granger.So begins Draco’s travesty of an Eighth Year on probation, where nothing ever goes to plan and good deeds NEVER pay. His Divination classes are a disaster, his mother owls him daily prophecies of doom, a rabid she-weasel stalks him through the castle, and his mad roommate from Durmstrang plots to avenge the Dark Lord.Each day sparks an internal battle between Draco’s calculating Malfoy nature and his reckless Black side. Every night brings Granger back again, wreaking havoc with his body and mind. Draco is convinced he's headed straight back to Azkaban and he’s almost looking forward to the trip.(FYI: This story is NOT part of “The Gloriana Set” universe. This is a whole new castle full of crazy.)
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 184
Kudos: 260





	1. Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> “This wand will demand honor, which means you are capable of such.”  
> — Garrick Ollivander
> 
> Disclaimer: I own no part of the Harry Potter franchise. It all belongs to JKR and Warner Bros.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This first chapter isn't dub-con, but things do get a little pushy.

Draco Malfoy was harsh and cold and hated by all. And Draco was fine with this. He liked the fearful stares and whispers, the cringing away as he passed. He liked the nervous starts when he was assigned to partner someone in class. Nearly everyone at Hogwarts walked warily around the last Marked Death Eater legally at large after the war. 

_You should be in Azkaban_ , people whispered. Draco could only agree, he _should_ be in Azkaban: He’d followed the Dark Lord every step of the way, after all, and surely would have killed Dumbledore if he’d been given just a little more time. 

So the harshness and coldness and hatred were working fine for Draco and he would have spent an uneventful school year sneering at everyone except for one minor issue: He needed a witch. Taking the Mark had destroyed that aspect of his life early in Sixth Year, rendering Draco too terrified and haunted to go about things properly. A shame, really—sex would have been an excellent release and plenty of witches had been eager to help. Slytherin girls liked their boys icy, mean and dangerous, especially when they were also rich, titled and handsome. 

But the horrors of that year had played hell with Draco’s nerves, so he’d pushed such distractions aside to concentrate on his little Woodworking Project of Death. Seventh Year was no better, with Death Eaters running the school and the Dark Lord ensconced in his home and all the screaming _and_ the torture _and_ the terrible dinner parties, with his mother in the midst of it all. He kept getting called home and that revel in September alone was enough to …

Never mind. The war was over now and against all reason Potter and his friends had prevailed. Mother’s role in this victory, while it didn’t save Father, at least helped spring Draco out of Azkaban after two months. Draco had barely stepped off the island when an owl arrived with an invitation to repeat his last year at Hogwarts. He was glad to go. He had a lifetime to sit in that mausoleum of a manor, where Aurors were still finding bits of victims in the walls and under the floorboards. 

So there Draco was, back in the castle with nine other returning students. This small band of “Eighth Years” of all Houses were considered adults and exempt from many school strictures. They could come and go as they pleased, wear what they pleased, even ignore curfew as long they acted as proper role models for younger students. 

Draco, of course, had no intention of being a proper role model for anybody. Quite the opposite. Restricted to school grounds by his probation, he haunted every class as a tall specter in black, silent and watchful. Around him the castle teemed with comely witches, batting eyelashes and flipping shining tresses and bending to retrieve dropped quills. Merlin, they were all compelling, and Draco’s found his eyes discreetly following nearly every female student in the castle, Seventh Year and up. 

The problem was, none were eyeing _him_. The Hufflepuff girls were too terrified, the Ravenclaws too smart and the Gryffindors too loyal to Potter. As for the Slytherin witches, the girls in green and silver refused to risk the slightest glance. Draco, with his Dark Mark and notorious name, represented the losing side. All his former friends had turned their backs on him and he was stuck rooming this year with a Durmstrang transfer named Tennant Rowle. 

And what a prize _he_ was. Tennant’s trembling hands were soaked with blood, and the war had left him haunted and more than a little maniacal. But his Death Eater father Thorfinn was safely in Azkaban, and Tennant had never taken the Mark, so the sandy-haired wizard swanned around the castle surrounded by eager Slytherin girls. _Tosser._ Draco, on the other hand, hadn’t killed anybody and much good that ever did him. 

But Draco wasn’t one to give up—there had to be a witch in this castle reckless enough to try on a Death Eater for size. He could probably bully a Hufflepuff into it, but the idea revolted him and he’d only end up with a shit shag. He needed a brash, adventuresome witch willing to take him on a dare, and for that, he needed—gasp— a Gryffindor. 

Which was why he was standing in a third-floor alcove, waiting for a particular Gryffindor prefect on patrol. Prefects usually patrolled in pairs, but those from different Houses split off at the end of their rounds. Draco held his breath at the sound of light, quick footsteps on the stone floor, and when he judged the time was right, he straightened his tie and stepped out into the corridor, blocking the girl’s path. 

“Romilda Vane,” he said silkily, looking down into the witch’s wide dark eyes. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to walk the Hogwarts corridors alone after dark?”

Vane stepped back and drew her wand, pointing it at Draco’s face in a perfect dueling stance. She’d been a soldier in Potter’s rag-tag army, after all. Her round, rosy-cheeked face showed no fear. Excellent. 

“Malfoy,” she snapped. “What are you doing out of your dungeons?” 

“Waiting for you,” Draco said. 

That threw her. Vane obviously had expected a snarl or cold insult, anything but a direct answer to her direct question. Her confused frown was a familiar sight from Potions, one of the two classes they shared. Draco had been watching her closely: Vane was loyal and brave, but also impulsive and featherbrained. He almost snickered, remembering how her recent Shrinking Solution had bubbled over three separate times in one class period, shrinking a row of wooden stools as well as Blaise Zabini’s feet. 

“What do you want with me?” Vane asked. 

“You’ll know soon enough,” Draco said, stepping closer. Vane’s wand quivered, but she didn’t step back. Also excellent. “I hear you’re finished with McLaggen.”

Everybody had heard Vane was finished with McLaggen. She’d caught the git snogging a Hufflepuff and Vane’s screeches had almost shattered the House Hourglass Cabinet. That’s how Vane had caught Draco’s eye in the first place, red-faced and howling, with the tall Quidditch star cowering before her, whining that he’d never touched the girl. Fiery. Draco could work with that. A shocking lack of breeding and self-control, of course, but what else could one expect from a Gryffindor?

Apparently, Vane demanded total fidelity. Normally that would be a deal breaker for Draco, but not this year. 

“So?” Vane snapped. “What’s it to you?”

“You were always too good for him,” Draco said, trying to sound sincere. Actually, Vane and McLaggen were perfect for each other and would surely reconcile and raise a pack of empty-headed, tantrum-throwing Gryffindors. After Draco was finished with Vane, of course. McLaggen should thank him for expanding the girl’s sexual repertoire. _See, Ministry, I_ can _be a benefit to society._

Vane sniffled at the compliment. “Yes, I was too good for him. He’ll be sorry, cheating on me with a Hufflepuff. And lying about it. Said he was out flying!” 

“How can you stand for that?” Draco asked. “Don’t you want revenge?”

The witch brightened. “Oh, he’ll be sorry all right. A few weeks with a clingy ’Puff and he’ll be begging me for forgiveness.”

Vane’s wand was at her side now—the little idiot—and she was nodding in satisfaction, apparently seeing nothing strange in discussing her romantic dreams with the school’s resident criminal.

“And you’ll reject him, of course,” Draco drawled. 

“Yes, of course … I will?” Vane blinked. 

“Oh yes. You’ll reject him outright, saying you would never leave your mystery lover.”

“Mystery lover?” Vane was intrigued. “Ooooh … like pretend I have a hot man on the side?” Her face lit up. “I can say he’s tall and handsome and a wolf in bed, with a big …” 

She flushed, but was too lost in her fantasy to stop. “Cormac will go crazy,” she breathed. “He’ll say, ‘No you don’t’ and I’ll say, “Yes, I do,’ and he’ll say ‘No, you don’t’ and I’ll say …”

“Yes, I get it, Vane,” Draco said testily. _Salazar save me._

“That’s what you’re saying, right?” Vane asked. “I should pretend I have a mystery lover?”

“No,” Draco said with rare patience. “I’m saying you should _get_ yourself a mystery lover.”

Vane frowned. “Who?”

Draco gave her a seductive grin, which was rather difficult while gritting one’s teeth. But he said nothing, just stepped closer still and brushed a hand over her fine dark hair, which hung straight down her back. Vane shivered and looked up with him with shocked eyes.

“Y-you?” She jumped backward, bringing up her wand again. “You’re a Death Eater!”

Draco winced. Just when things were going so well. Well, if you can’t deny it, embrace it. “Yes, I’m very dangerous,” he said, his voice deepening. “Run away, little Gryffindor.”

Her chin came up. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Prove it,” Draco challenged. He stepped closer again, and Vane allowed it.

“I don’t have to prove anything,” she said, her breath coming fast. She’d get light-headed if she kept that up, but then, how could anyone tell?

He decided to take a risk. “I won’t hurt you, Vane.” He gave her a thin smile. “Unless you want me to.”

Jackpot. Vane gasped, but she didn’t move away. Her wand arm fell to her side and she stared up at him, realizing all the shocking implications of taking a handsome, dangerous Slytherin as her mystery lover. Draco had never seen anyone whose face was such an open book. She was intrigued, titillated: McLaggen and every other boy in the school suddenly seemed tame in comparison. She frowned—what would her friends say?

“Nobody would know,” Draco said. He tried to sound soothing, but the words came out a little graveled. His patience, not very long to begin with, was beginning to fray. He’d never had so much trouble with a witch before. Was this what lesser wizards had to go through all the time? All this wheedling and empty chatter? How did they keep from _Avada-ing_ themselves in despair? It was a wonder any of them got pussy.

And now Vane was running through another set of expressions. Salazar, they really would be here all night. Her thoughts were clear: _Nobody would know? What was the point of doing something shocking and salacious if nobody knew?_

“Just drop a few hints,” he said. “No one would ever suspect the truth. The mystery would drive them all mad.”

Vane liked this, he could tell, liked knowing something no one else knew. It probably wasn’t a common feeling for her. Time to make his move. 

Draco slid two fingers under her chin and tilted up her face. It had been nearly two years since he’d been this close to a girl under peaceful circumstances and he had to concentrate to keep his fingers from gripping more tightly, to keep his body still and not shove her against the nearest wall _. So close …_

“Aren’t you curious, little Gryffindor?” he whispered. “Wouldn’t you like to know? What it’s like?”

She would. It was written all over her face. So he bent his head and kissed her firmly, running his other hand down her body to her hip. His tongue brushed her lips and she let him in, let him push his tongue into her mouth and he pulled her roughly to him. No need for niceties; he’d positioned himself as a dangerous vice, bad for her in every possible way. He might have to present some vulnerability at some point, just to keep her coming back, but not tonight. 

The sharp echo of footsteps broke them apart—Vane’s face was flushed and her breasts heaving, while Draco concentrated on looking seductive. He gave her his best hooded look and strode off, allowing the robes he wore over his suit to billow dramatically. 

He didn’t have to look back. She was undoubtedly standing in the center of the corridor, flushed and open-mouthed. Anybody would know she’d been with a boy after curfew. Draco smirked as he slipped into a secret passage leading to the first-floor Serpentine Corridor. But they wouldn’t know _who_. 

  
  
  


***

  
  


Draco paced the empty classroom the following evening. Vane was late. His whispered words after lunch had been very clear: _Meet at seven in the third-floor corridor, Classroom C._ Located at the corridor’s far end under a dark arch, Classroom C was an excellent place for an assignation. 

Or perhaps not. The large room had once been used for Defense Against the Dark Arts and held a tall shelf packed with bleached bones. Heavy Gothic beams ribbed the walls and pointed ceiling. There were no desks, just a wide hardwood floor scored with slashes and burns. The mirrored wardrobe in the corner was perfect for a boggart. Creepiest of all was the row of plaster death masks lined up along the grimy window sill, each head numbered and tagged. Their sunken eyes watched Draco with suspicion. 

Grimacing, he pulled out his pocket watch, a family heirloom engraved with the Malfoy crest. Inside, the words “Romilda Vane, 7 p.m.” had appeared etched into the silver. It was now 7:20. Was Vane even coming? Or did she take one look at the room and flee?

Maybe she’d heard wrong. Maybe she went to the second corridor, or to Classroom B. This wasn’t a Slytherin with plotting steeped into her bones. Maybe she’d had second thoughts. Maybe she’d confided in someone more intelligent and they’d talked her out of it. Maybe she and McLaggen had made up. Merlin, did this mean he’d have to start all over again? Where would he find another adventurous, delusional Gryffindor open to a little manhandling? At this rate he’d have to resort to Polyjuice to get any action, not that he would—sickening—but …

The classroom door creaked open and Draco almost sighed in relief to see Vane’s round, rosy face. 

“You’re late,” he growled, snapping his watch shut and tucking it away. Always best to take command at once. 

“I know,” she breathed. “Cho stopped me at the landing. She said Leanne told Katie that my new Hogsmeade dress looked cheap with the gold tulle, but Cho said I shouldn’t worry, because nobody agrees with her. I mean, who would? Leanne’s just jealous because—”

“Enough,” Draco snapped. He was _not_ listening to this. “Close the door and come here.”

“Well, aren’t you Mr. Bossy Pants—”

Draco gritted his teeth. He hadn’t stood around this creepy classroom half the evening to chatter about dresses. Merlin, what if those girls’ reputations were all talk? What if they weren’t sluts at _all_? He would be so disillusioned. 

“What are you doing, Malfoy, I haven’t finished telling you—”

Draco crossed the room to her, trying to ignore the death masks’ empty, watchful eyes. He pushed Vane against the wall and pressed his body against hers. “Lick your lips,” he said.

“W-what?”

“Lick your lips,” he repeated, barely keeping his temper in check. This was it—either she would play along or he’d have to find someone else.

Vane stared up at him in shock. Then, just as Draco was about to release her, she licked her lips. 

_Thank Salazar._ Draco crashed his lips into hers, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. Vane’s arms twined around his neck and he placed both hands under her bum and lifted her, hands sliding up her thighs. She wrapped her legs around his waist. He was half-hard already and ground into her as he forced her mouth open wider. _Merlin_ , it had been too long. Gryffindor girls were nothing like Slytherins. His housemates had been adept, but purposeful, eager to seduce, to impress. One had even conjured a mirror to watch herself and monitor her techniques. The result, Draco now realized, had been a cold shag, precise and practiced. 

Vane, on the other hand, wasn’t trying to impress. He doubted she was thinking of him at all. She was just trying to get off, and would only stay as long as she liked what he was doing. Draco could respect that, and while he appreciated the honesty, he hoped she liked what he was doing, because he wasn’t going to change. He liked being rough and selfish and demanding and she’d better just take it, because …

“Malfoy!” Vane squeaked out. Alright, maybe not that rough. Draco would have blushed if he was capable of blushing. Had gotten a little carried away there. Well, he wasn’t going to apologize. He stroked Vane’s hair a little bit and that seemed to appease her, at least enough to allow him to tug her knickers aside. His touch set off a series of loud, very unladylike moans rather foreign to Draco’s ears, but he wasn’t complaining. She clung to his shoulders to keep her place as he withdrew a hand to unfasten his trousers. 

“Have you …” he whispered. 

“I’m on the potion,” she gasped. 

Like he was going to trust that. Draco drew his wand from this suitcoat pocket and cast a contraceptive spell. Then he thrust into her hard, with no warning, and squeezed his eyes shut at the sudden heat, dropping his wand with a clatter. _Finally._ He wouldn’t last long, but that was probably for the best. Vane was moaning even more loudly and he hadn’t thought to cast a silencing spell. It hadn’t been necessary with the few Slytherin girls he’d managed to bed. 

Draco thought of commanding Vane to be quiet, but his throat couldn’t form the words, he found he quite liked it this way. He slammed into her again and again and Vane didn’t seem to mind and Draco hoped she got what she needed because he couldn’t hold back anymore. He came explosively, and it took all his leg strength to keep from collapsing on the stone floor. 

He pulled out and set her down, eyeing her a bit nervously. A pretty thing it would be if Vane had second thoughts and started shouting Death Eater rape. Gryffindors were capable of anything. Draco was trying to set up a regular thing here, not a one-time shag, so she needed to stay on board. The very idea of beginning the tedious seduction process with another witch made him shiver. 

Fastening his trousers, he smoothed his clothes and hair and retrieved his wand. Vane sat on the floor, panting. Shit, he couldn’t just leave her here. Usually he was the one resting while the girl raved about his prowess and then he sent her away. Now he was standing there like some whipped sod waiting for the bint to open her eyes and give him something about her state of mind. She wasn’t panting anymore … she wasn’t falling asleep, was she?

He glanced around the room, noticing all the plaster heads were turned toward them. Even the creepy skeleton hanging from a beam was looking. _Perverts._ Then he looked down again at the girl on the floor.

“Vane?” he asked, more softly than he’d intended.

Her eyes popped open, thank Merlin, and she looked up at him hazily, her skirts bunched around her waist. “Come … come sit with me,” she breathed. 

Draco almost groaned but reminded himself of the long game. Dark, dangerous Death Eaters didn’t cuddle, but he couldn’t just walk out. 

“Did you hear that?” he asked, looking at the door. 

“I don’t hear anything,” Vane said.

“I didn’t cast a silencing spell,” Draco said. “Someone might have heard.”

Vane frowned, an encouraging sign. She didn’t want to be discovered either. The girl scrambled to her feet, straightening her clothes. Draco and moved toward the door, casting a tiny wandless, nonverbal spell that was enough to set the door rattling. Vane shrank back into the shadows behind a shelf, and Draco snickered silently. He held up a commanding hand for silence and she obeyed. _Too easy._

“They’re gone,” he pronounced. “But we’d better go. It’s almost curfew.”

Vane nodded and walked toward the door, her hands smoothing her own hair. Then she twined her arms around his neck, demanding a kiss. Draco obliged. 

“If Cho could only see me now,” Vane giggled. “Or Leanne. Or Parvati. They’d never _believe_ it.” She looked up at him. “Are you going to Hogsmeade this weekend?”

Draco blinked. She didn’t expect him to take her to the village, did she? 

“You can’t tell anyone about this,” he said sternly. He was on probation and didn't need any suspicion of wrongdoing. He tried to soften his tone. “Mystery lover, remember?”

She nodded. “Mystery lover.”

Draco nodded back. Maybe he was getting the idea of this. It was a bit like dealing with Crabbe and Goyle: Just keep repeating crucial phrases until they sunk in. 

“ _Mystery_ lover,” he said once more. 

“Mystery _lover_ ,” Vane crooned back, and Draco felt a pang of nausea. All for a greater cause, he told himself. He brushed her dark hair back from her right ear. 

“Will you solve all my mysteries, Vane?” he whispered, and smiled as the girl shivered. “You’ll like it in the dark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: Draco reads his tea leaves.


	2. Tessomancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still with me? Wow, that's great. Thank you for all your kind words and comments.
> 
> Now it's time to take a deep, cleansing breath and pour yourself a hot cup of tea because we're headed to Advanced Divination ...

Draco stalked through the castle’s Entrance Hall on a Thursday evening, scowl firmly in place. He’d been shagging Romilda Vane for two weeks now and it was going well enough. The sex was fine, and he’d figured out how to avoid the constant prattle. Vane required a strict regimen, beginning with a blow job practically the second she arrived. It was literally the only way to shut her up. So he was quite satisfied with that part of the arrangement. 

The problem was the Gryffindor witch’s utter lack of discretion. Vane was incapable of following instructions unless Draco was physically present to reinforce them. He’d tell her to meet him in the third-floor alcove by the tapestry of Sir Eric the Errant, and she’d wander the fourth-floor corridor, asking all the paintings where to find Sir Eric. Draco would instruct her to wait in the old DADA classroom (which remained the best place despite the pervy heads) and she’d forget which door and check every room in the corridor, occupied or not. When she finally entered the right room, she’d cry “Draco!” loud enough for half the castle to hear. And giggle. 

Just an hour before, Vane had wandered into the wrong dark stairwell and started snogging a random blond Ravenclaw. Draco found them there, with Vane halfway to her opening act, saying the boy “seemed shorter today.” Draco had to _Obliviate_ the baffled Sixth Year with Vane’s wand and send him off. 

He had nearly ended the whole thing right there, he was so furious. He was on probation and casting forbidden spells, even with another’s wand, was incredibly dangerous. Vane was apologetic, then defiant, then terrified when Draco started bringing out the threats. She vowed to be more careful, but it wouldn’t last. Draco was angry at himself as well; he’d been a fool to expect discretion from a Gryffindor. 

Still steaming, Draco retreated to his bedroom, an opulent suite traditionally available to Slytherin’s Head of House. The room had sat empty for decades since Slughorn preferred his huge office on the sixth floor and Snape had lived behind the Potion dungeons. Slughorn had been forced to place Draco alone in the comfortable room since no one would live with a Death Eater, and Draco had enjoyed a few blissful days there, inheriting the sumptuous bed with its brocade canopy and carved darkwood bedposts.

A week later, a second, more conventional four-poster had appeared and was filled with the fourteen-plus stones of Tennant Rowle. Tennant had been off on a drinking bender on the Continent and turned up at Hogwarts without notice, announcing that he wanted to transfer. Happy to settle in with Draco, Tennant lost no time scattering invisible traps around the room (a routine Durmstrang precaution) as well as a dozen mysterious objects made of silver and crystal. 

Draco tried to stay out of the room after that, except to sleep. Tonight the space was empty, thank Salazar. He fussily prepared for bed, the home-like routines settling his nerves even if he did have to put away his clothes like a house elf. 

But sleep eluded him. The scene with Vane had left him half furious, half aroused, and he tossed and turned on the luxurious bed. A thin ray of moonlight peeked between the hangings, touching on the carved snakes slithering up and down the bedposts. When Draco finally slept, another Azkaban nightmare awaited: 

_... Crouched in a corner,_

_Ragged, shivering, the very walls whispering:_

_“You’re empty, Dracooo … so empty … of thoughts … of feelings … of life …”_

“No …” Draco groaned, “no …”

_The stone mocks him: “Wretched, alone, forgotten, hated …”_

_Chains clank as he rolls_

_Body racked with coughs in the dirty, stifling air._

_“You’ll be back, Dracooo … you’ll be back …”_

“NOOOO!”

Draco woke with a start, heart pounding, throat hoarse and scratchy. Thank Salazar the wards he always set around his bed hadn’t dissipated yet. If Tennant Rowle heard Draco crying out at night, he’d never hear the end of it. 

He peeled off his sweaty pajamas and drew his wand from under his pillow. It took three tries to further strengthen the wards; the hawthorn wavered in his hand, resisting him. Draco shook it a few times and frowned. Had Potter damaged the wand before returning it by owl post? No, Draco had been struggling with his wandwork for the better part of a year, ever since the day he confronted Dumbledore. 

_It’s just nerves._ Draco shoved the wand under his pillow and lay back again. He’d hoped regular shagging would help, but his nightmares were worse than ever. He was on very thin ice with the Ministry, with a Head Auror eager to pounce on the slightest hint of wrongdoing. Fuck, this thing with Vane could be Draco's one-way ticket back to prison if he wasn’t careful. He had to find a way to control her or end things altogether. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Draco was still brooding over the Vane problem the following afternoon as he climbed the stairs to the Divination Tower. Professor Trelawney had resumed her classes after the horse returned to the Forbidden Forest. The Dark Lord’s prophecy and its role in the war had raised Divination’s cachet, and more students than ever requested the subject, hoping to be Seers. The Advanced class was crammed with mostly female students from all four Houses, including Vane and Loony Lovegood.

Draco’s own attendance was part of his probation: The Ministry considered the subject essential to “understanding how one’s actions affect the future.” Mad idea. Draco always left Divination with a raging headache from the perfumed air and a faint regret that the Dark Lord had lost after all. 

Today the class took a dramatic turn for the worse. Draco had always sat alone at the room’s tiniest table—certainly nobody wanted to See _his_ future. But as the Slytherin scaled the wooden ladder and popped his head out of the hole in the classroom floor, he saw that once again his cherished isolation had been snatched away. The round room was crammed with tiny tea tables, armchairs and fat poufs as usual, but today a second pouf had been added to Draco’s table. On it sat the last person he expected to see in this class.

_Hermione Granger._

The Golden Girl’s contempt for Divination, after all, was well-known, despite its role in the Dark Lord’s defeat. Certainly she didn’t look happy to be there: She was perched almost comically on her pouf, arms crossed and nose in the air, her back ramrod straight. Draco had no choice but to join her, since the other tables were full and none would welcome him anyway, not even Vane, who was crammed around a table with three friends. 

He stalked across the room and sat uncomfortably close to Granger. The lamp above them, draped with a silk scarf, cast a dim, crimson light. Draco was sweating slightly and it wasn't from the stuffy air.

Vane gave him what she fondly considered a secret smile. By now everyone was aware of Vane's interest in him, but Draco’s harsh words and scowls and famous antipathy toward Gryffindors prevented anyone from believing anything was actually going on. It had become a running joke, with Vane always looking for Draco. It was also dangerous—eventually someone would see something. He had to take care of this situation before it …

“For Merlin’s sake,” a voice said acidly, “just _Incendio_ the quill if you hate it so much.”

Draco blinked in confusion before he could stop himself, then realized he’d been glaring at a quill on the table while he thought about Vane. He transferred his glare to the speaker. Granger had paused in the act of pouring tea to give the teacup, Draco and the entire classroom a sweeping look of contempt.

She pointedly did not fill Draco’s cup, just set the teapot down with a thunk, jostling the table. Draco watched her sip her tea, slap the cup face-down on its saucer and pick it up again.

“I can see my future will contain …” Granger looked into the dregs. “Wet leaves. Charming.” 

Draco stared. Clearly the war had unhinged Granger’s giant brain. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

“NEWTs.” Granger’s words practically crumbled from her lips, her voice was so dry. “Dumbledore earned eight Outstanding NEWTs and I plan to match that number. For that, I need Advanced Divination.”

Draco picked up the teapot, hiding his surprise at her casual mention of their late Headmaster. _Nobody_ mentioned Dumbledore around Draco. Even Headmistress McGonagall had avoided the name in their short, freezing interview. The rest of the class was staring, shocked to witness a civilized exchange between the Golden Girl and the Death Eater. Vane's face was red, Draco noticed _—_ was the daft bint jealous now? Of _Granger_? Granger, with her baggy robes and bushy hair and flat …

Well, maybe not anymore. Draco hadn’t spared Granger more than a passing glance this year, but it was hard to avoid looking at someone sitting six inches away. The little Mudblood (was she always so small?) wore a Muggle outfit that was frankly a bit shocking: tight denims and a red jumper that clung to every curve. Her dark hair was piled up haphazardly with corkscrew curls bouncing over her forehead and ears. Up close he could see her thickly lashed, honey-gold eyes under straight, black brows. He could see the light freckles across her nose and another sprinkling on the creamy skin below her collarbone …

Draco shivered convulsively, dropping the teapot and spilling its contents. What was he doing, looking at _Granger_? At her curls and eyes and freckles and …?

It wasn’t that she was a Mudblood; the war had effectively quashed Draco's enthusiasm for pureblood manias. All that red-eyed shrieking about Mudbloods and Muggles and the Dark Lord himself turned out to be half-Muggle, raised by Muggles. Draco had felt utterly deceived when he'd overheard _that_ bit of trivia. And furious. His family was being manipulated and his home desecrated. It wasn't right. Malfoys were supposed to manipulate _others_. After the war, a cursory read of Tom Riddle's history put Draco firmly on the side of the soul-cracked loon's Muggle father, especially after seeing the _Prophet’_ s picture of Merope Gaunt. Of course the man had left! Imagine waking up one day and finding yourself married to _that—_

A burning sensation broke this line of thought and Draco leaped to his feet, tea pouring off his black trousers and over his shoes. He expected the witch to start howling, Vane-style, over the hot liquid that dripped onto her as well, but Granger appeared unimpressed, as if sharing a table with a loony Death Eater who drowned his surroundings in tea was only to be expected in Advanced Divination. 

“Oh dear!” Professor Trelawney swooped in like a glittery dragonfly, her eyes bugged-out behind oversized glasses. 

“I expect you have some towels on hand, Professor.” Granger’s smile was cool. “For surely you _foresaw_ this little mishap.”

Laughter rippled through the class and Draco turned a smirk into a sneer. Trelawney whirled off in a huff, muttering about Granger’s “mundane mind.” The Gryffindor witch appeared not to notice; with a flick of her wand she’d righted the teapot and cleared away the liquid. 

Draco retook his seat and immediately wished he hadn't. The spilt (and still scalding hot) tea had not been vanished, only gathered into a small puddle on his side of the tilted table and was now pouring into his lap. Draco gritted his teeth, determined not to further look the fool, and drew his wand to cast a _Tergeo_ on the table and his person. His wand wobbled slightly in his hand, requiring two tries to get the spell right, but finally he steadied it. He followed it up with a quick cooling charm—if that accursed witch had caused the _smallest_ mark on his skin …

“Shall I pour?” Granger asked politely.

Draco gave her his most terrible glare, and she responded with a bright smile, her pearly, perfect teeth mocking him. A familiar coldness settled over his mind, a habit from the war. _Malfoys do not show emotion_. _Malfoys rise above petty sniping._

So he slid his wand back into his pocket and poured his own tea, drinking the hot liquid and placing the cup face-down on its saucer with delicate precision. Three counterclockwise rotations. Clear the mind. Peer into the cup. There.

Draco froze.

“What is it?” Granger asked, ever curious. 

Draco would never admit it, but he had a sneaking respect for Divination. He knew this branch of magic was capable of surprising insights. His mother was quite skilled, and she had predicted that following the Dark Lord could destroy the family. His father had only laughed, of course, at her tales of “coiled evil,” blood dripping from the manor’s walls and words of hate carved into skin. Draco, however, never forgot. 

But that didn’t mean Draco himself could See, or that those literally sodding tea leaves meant anything. He certainly didn’t like what he was Seeing now. Especially the leaves clustered near the teacup handle, which Draco was holding with white-knuckled fingers. The heart shape was as precise as if the leaves had been drawn with a quill. 

“Wait, let me guess," Granger said. "You’re going to suffer, but you’ll be happy about it.” 

It took all of Draco’s self-control not to lash out at her. Instead he cleared his face of expression and set the teacup back on its saucer, allowing his little finger to swipe across the damning shape. Draco wiped his hand delicately on a napkin and turned away, ignoring his tablemate. 

Granger huffed, but Draco hardly cared. He was looking across the room, watching a certain Gryffindor giggling with her friends over their teacups. _Surely not._

“Whatever you saw, it’s likely nonsense.” Granger’s cold voice was almost reassuring. Draco turned his head to see her smooth profile, the curve of her cheek. 

“Don’t speak to me,” Draco snarled. He stood, although class hadn’t ended, and snatched up his black leather satchel. Without another word, he stalked off, swinging down the ladder and out of that stifling, perfumed, disturbing room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: Hermione writes Harry.


	3. Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a shorty -- I'm keeping each chapter to a single point of view, so word counts will vary. Most of this story is presented through Draco's eyes, but we do get some Hermione POV, too.
> 
> Also, be aware that this story moves slooooowly in time. There's a Scheherazade and "One Thousand And One Nights" quality to this tale as the situation plays out. 
> 
> Finally, this Hermione chapter is dedicated to all you insomniacs out there.

_“Where did you get this sword? Where?"_

_Fingers grip her hair, forcing her head back._

_"We found it!”_

_“ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!"_

_“Draco, fetch the goblin.” Lucius._ _  
_

_The carving begins, deep, almost to the bone,_

_She stares into silver eyes …_

Hermione popped up in bed, panting and shivering. Thank Merlin for silencing wards. Night after night the terrors came, always the same scene at Malfoy Manor. But each night spotlighted a different person: Bellatrix convulsed by madness, Narcissa’s pale distaste, Greyback eager and slavering, Lucius’ face pink with excitement. 

And far worst of all, tonight brought Draco Malfoy’s wide, frightened eyes. Her Slytherin classmate should have been sneering that day, triumphant, wand at the ready to join in. She could have held onto that image, pretended it was another schoolyard confrontation. 

But Draco silent in that drawing room, Draco shaking, _Draco_ horrorstruck—well, there you had it. Hermione was sure she wouldn’t leave that manor alive. 

_Stop._

Hermione reached for the towel and bowl of water she now kept nearby. She washed her face and neck, lifting sweaty curls with one hand and dripping cold water on her left forearm. Then she whisked the bowl and pitcher away with a flick of wandless magic. 

Clutching a pillow, she whispered her mantra: 

_It’s alright._

_You’re safe._

_Ron came._

_Harry came._

_Dobby came._

_A cottage by the sea._

_Breathe._

She wished it was enough to allow her to sleep. After all, she’d been fine at the Burrow and then alone in her parents’ house this summer. But since returning to Hogwarts she’d been stumbling through her days, eating by rote, glamouring the shadows under her eyes. Sleepwalking. 

The only time she’d felt truly awake had been today in Advanced Divination, of all places, with Draco Malfoy, of all people. That tiny table had her practically sitting in his lap. She’d never been so physically close to the Slytherin before, not since slapping him in Third Year. 

He’d looked anything but intimidating, though, glowering there on his pink pouf. Sad and withdrawn despite the arrogant set to his shoulders. His eyes when he looked at his tea leaves—what had he Seen? What shape could make him look like that? She was dying to know, not that she believed that rubbish.

Hermione ran a hand under her pillow, plucking out a much-creased scroll. Harry’s latest letter. It helped to read his words, although Auror training didn’t allow him to write often. 

_… They’re pushing us hard, Hermione. Too hard, for some. Susan Bones dropped out yesterday, Ron last week. They won’t let me fight, though, so I just join raids of Death Eater estates or Knockturn Alley shops._

_Too bad you’re still not sleeping. Neville says you don’t talk to anyone—Hermione, you promised you wouldn’t do that. You can’t go through this alone. You have to let someone help you._ _I don’t care who it is._

Hermione shook her head. Who could help her? Harry and Ron were so far away …

 _Ron._ It still hurt to think about Ron. She missed him. She wished they were speaking. How long were he and Ginny going to stay angry? Probably forever. Nobody did devastation like a Weasley. 

No, she wouldn't fret about Ron. They'd make it up someday, somehow, and be friends again. He was working at the joke shop, according to _The Daily Prophet_ , and he had his family, except for poor dear Fred. _He'll be fine._

It was herself and Harry she worried about. Harry was right; she needed some sort of help. But who? Who was strong enough? Neville still flinched whenever anyone brought up the war, as if they were about to produce another snake to slay right there and then. 

Ginny was more than strong enough, but Ginny was dealing with her own post-war issues in a rather alarming way. The redhead had gotten her hands on Mad-Eye Moody’s old notebooks over the summer and found an Unspeakable to crack the code. She’d also acquired Moody’s magical trunk. Now she was living at Hogwarts in an undisclosed location and twisting her lovely locks into braids to keep her hair from being stolen for Polyjuice. Ginny was also bitter about her breakup with Harry; people didn’t even mention the wizard around her anymore. She had no interest in helping Hermione, and Hermione didn’t blame her. 

Hermione sighed. She'd hoped pursuing eight NEWTs would distract her, but apparently not. Sometimes she wished she was back in the tent with Harry and the Horcrux. _No, you don’t want that, even without the Horcrux. Not really._

She dabbed at her forehead with the still-damp cloth. Her roommate always banked the fire high before sleep and whined if Hermione put it out. It was easier just to wear thin, short pajamas. And truth be told, she found the warmth comforting. 

Rolling up Harry's letter, she went and fetched her trusty wooden lap desk, with parchment and quill and ink tucked inside, and began scribbling:

_Dear Harry,_

_Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine …_

She paused, then continued writing.

_... Just watch, I’ll get my NEWTs, all eight of them._

_I even added Advanced Divination today. Malfoy was there, being a prat, of course. He dumped an entire pot of tea on our table, read his leaves, freaked out and ran off. I rather fear for his mind._

  
  


Hermione put down her quill and closed her eyes. But it was useless. She was wide awake. But she didn’t want to think about Divination, much less about Draco Malfoy.

Maybe she should work on her Astronomy extra-credit project. She’d acquired a broken astrarium clock in Knockturn Alley over the summer and was still trying to repair it. It was a little magical work of art, that clock, showing the movements of the sun, moon and six tiny planets. 

She dived under her pillows again and emerged with a rune-carved box. Carefully she lifted up the battered bronze clock and placed it on the lap desk. 

The clock was 2 feet tall, topped with a dozen mysterious dials, and in the space below the delicate bronze gears floated a small gold sun circled by a silver moon and six metal or gemstone planets. The clock’s basic design was muggle, a mechanical clock run on gears and weights, but the magical version was far more elegant. 

Hermione consulted an almanac, then used her wand to move the first dial on the top. The sun floated in sync. The second dial moved the moon, just one more degree—

The silver moon flashed, then dropped to the bottom of the astrarium. Hermione huffed in irritation. Whenever she calibrated one heavenly body, the others moved out of order. Even when she’d managed to line up all the planets, the sun and moon would not cooperate.

And look at that, the little gold sun was glowing, but it couldn’t be dawn already. … She waved her wand to open her bed hangings, then the window curtains, allowing orange-gold light to fill the room.

 _Oh, sunrise. Brilliant, another day on two hours’ sleep._ Harry was right; this was a real problem. Mantras, potions, even firewhiskey didn't help.

Hermione tucked the clock back into its box and slid it under her pillows. She had to manage these nightmares somehow. If allowed to continue, the lack of sleep would endanger her health, her emotional state and far worst of all, her eight NEWTs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: Draco plays fashion critic.


	4. Folly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire story hinges on this chapter, and I'm excited to post it. I continue to be impressed by the many perceptive comments, especially on the topic of PTSD and forging new identities after the war. 
> 
> Warnings: Some violence, sexual situations. No animals were harmed in the writing of these scenes.

Vane grabbed Draco’s hand and tugged him toward the bed. “Quick,” she breathed. 

“What, now? Are you daft?” Draco snapped. Being in Gryffindor Tower made him tetchy. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. “It’s two in the afternoon. Anyone could walk in.”

She pressed against him, slipping the broomstick from his hand. “My roommate’s at the library.”

Draco snorted at such an obvious falsehood. Even if her roommate was studying on this beautiful Sunday afternoon—which he didn’t believe for a minute—inevitably she’d return for a scroll or textbook or lipstick at the worst possible time. He said as much to Vane, who was beginning their usual regimen by pushing down his Quidditch leathers. 

“She won’t return,” Vane said with complete conviction. “She’ll be gone for _hours_.” She began sinking to her knees, then changed her mind and towed him toward the bed again. 

“Come on, Draco, we can …” She switched direction and yanked him the other way. Her smile was very Slytherin. “ _Here’s_ the bed.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Are you sure?” 

“Isn’t it nice?” Vane pulled off her jumper and stretched out on the red coverlet, her hair glossy black against a golden pillow. It _was_ a nice bed, Draco had to admit, edging closer. The coverings were exquisitely fluffed and smoothed with a light, flowery scent that was rather irresistible. This Gryffindor was a surprise sometimes. Perhaps a quick …

“You’ve captured me,” Vane said breathily. 

Draco froze in the act of shedding his jersey. _Fuck, she thinks she’s in love._ He’d hoped Vane was too invested in her own idiot-on-a-stick for that to happen. This could be a disaster; she would get obsessed and try to save him from his evil ways and the breakup would be hell on wheels …

“I’m your prisoner,” the witch said.

He frowned. This seemed a bit poetic for Vane. The tone was off as well, a little too dark and excited and ... 

Vane raised her arms over her head and clasped them. “I won’t tell you _anything_!”

Draco blessed his Slytherin training, or surely he would have been gaping at the girl in horror. “What the fuck, Vane?” 

“I’ve heard the stories,” Vane said, looking at his left arm. Draco resisted the urge to clap his hand over the snake-and-skull brand. 

“About Malfoy Manor,” she continued eagerly, “about the—”

“STOP!” Draco shouted. This couldn’t be happening. This cute little Gryffindor _couldn’t_ be asking him to don his Death Eater persona and pretend to seize her and rape her. His blood ran cold at the very idea. His nightmares were bad enough already. 

Vane’s smile faltered. If he denied her, would she go to someone else? Tennant Rowle would be more than happy to accommodate her; Draco’s roommate still wasn’t getting anywhere with girls outside their House. 

His jersey in hand, Draco eyed Vane more carefully. She didn’t know any better. She didn’t know what she was asking. Draco decided to take a calculated risk. He dropped the jersey and stepped up to the bed and Vane smiled and he …

CRACK! Draco’s open hand struck Vane’s cheek with a force that surprised even him. Her outraged screech was cut off by his hands around her throat, his long fingers pressing relentlessly. 

“Is this what you want, Vane?” Draco didn’t recognize his own voice, full of mingled rage and disgust. “You want to play this game? Really?”

Vane shook her head, as much as she was able. Draco released her and straightened, careful to retain his Death Eater mask. The girl coughed and put her hands over her face. Draco sighed. Maybe he took it a little too far. Maybe.

“Vane,” he said quietly. “Vane. Romilda.”

She looked up at him in amazement, eyes watering. He never called her by her first name. 

“What happened at the Manor was … evil,” Draco said. “Torture. Blood. Death. Not the stuff of games. Do you understand?” 

Vane nodded, sniffling. 

Merlin, he’d made a mess of things. _He_ was the moron here. Well, the other moron. He should have just refused her. He’d just been so furious _..._ Draco picked up his jersey and broom, then turned toward the window. 

“Where are you going?” Vane asked.

He spun around. “I’m leaving—”

“Why?” Vane was sitting up on the bed now, tilting her head slightly to one side. A vivid handprint stood out on her cheek and her throat was beginning to bruise.

Draco stared, unable to speak. 

“It’s alright,” she said, sliding off the bed. “I won’t ask you to go all Death Eater again. Would you like to play a different game?” Her eyes lit up. “Maybe I can tell _you_ what to—”

Draco’s broom fell from nerveless fingers. “You’re mental.” 

Vane pouted. “I think it’s the least you could do.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “You still want to?” 

Vane just looked up at him as if demanding sex after a bout of slapping and choking was the most natural thing in the world. “Why not?”

Draco could come up with a hundred reasons, but found himself unable to articulate any of them. He spoke, and the words tumbling from his mouth were not those he’d planned to say: “Let me heal you first.”

  
  


***

They lay side by side afterward, not saying anything. The sex had been gentler than usual, and as Draco kissed her warm skin he realized he could never fuck a Slytherin witch again, endure those cool, knowing touches. Was this to be his future, a lifetime of secret trysts with reckless, barmy witches?

Draco sat up and looked down at the girl on the now-rumpled bed. And now he was being reckless, too. Suddenly his latest plan—the reason for being in this bloody room in the first place—seemed even more ridiculous and risky. But he had no choice. If he kept shagging Vane in classrooms and alcoves and stairwells, it was only a matter of time before they were discovered. Even now her roommate could return any second …

He slid out of the bed and pulled on his clothes. “Get up,” he said. 

Vane huffed but obeyed, donning a pink silk wrapper. Draco dressed quickly, then waved his wand to clean and restore the bedding. A few stubborn lumps remained under the coverlet near the foot of the bed, but it would do well enough.

“Oh, my hair!” Vane cried, snatching up a hairbrush. “Draco, you beast!”

Draco just grunted. Smack the girl silly and she wanted another shag. Ruffle her hair a bit and he was an animal. With Vane hogging the wardrobe, Draco stepped up to a round mirror atop a bureau. Its frame and brass stand were tarnished with age and cracks splintered the edges of the glass. The thick, cloudy surface showed no clear image, just faint shadows.

“Don’t bother,” Vane said as she fluffed her bangs. “That old thing never works.” 

Draco turned away from the intriguing object. It was time to get to business anyway. He stood by Vane’s bed and eyed it consideringly. It should work. The glossy, golden maple bed frame looked sturdy and with the hangings tightly closed …

“What is it, Draco?” Vane asked.

“I know a way we can be together without sneaking around the school,” he said. “A Vanishing Spell.”

“What’s that?” Vane seemed more interested in her hair than in any spell. 

“It’s an enchantment that will make you Vanish from this room … and into mine.”

Vane looked up at him, a pink ribbon in her hand. “ _Your_ room?”

“My bed, actually,” Draco said. Merlin, the plan sounded even more ridiculous out loud. _What are you doing?_ his mind’s Malfoy voice gibbered at him. Faintly he could hear his Black side cackle.

Vane frowned. “Nobody can Apparate in Hogwarts.”

“You know that?” Draco asked, surprised.

She pointed to a tattered book on a nearby table: _Hogwarts: A History._

Draco shut his mouth with an effort. Full of surprises, this one. “Yes, well, it’s not Apparition. I just need a few minutes to cast the spell.” 

Vane shrugged. “Alright." She turned away and swept the brush down her long dark hair. 

Draco goggled at her back for a moment—' _Alright?' That’s it?_ —then stepped between the witch and the full-length mirror. Vane frowned again, but he was about to give instructions, and for that he needed her full attention.

“Whatever you’re doing tonight, you have to be in bed by ten o’clock," he told her.

“Why? What are—”

The locked bedroom door rattled. “Romilda!” 

“Just a minute, Leanne!” Vane yelled. Draco stepped aside and Vane began tying up her hair. “We’re going to Diagon Alley today,” she said. 

“Romilda!” The door rattled.

“You’d better leave, Draco.”

“I have to cast the spell,” he insisted.

“Well, I have to pick a dress!” Vane squeaked. 

“I’ll help you, Romilda!” her friend called through the door. Draco shook his head. 

“Then you’ll have to help me, Draco.” Vane threw two dresses on her roommate’s rumpled bed and shed her wrapper. “Tell me which one you like." She pulled on a pair of distracting pink knickers.

“That dress,” Draco said, pointing. The purple dress looked half the size it should be and had a red flower on the bodice, but the other one—shiny gold with pink tulle—looked even worse. “But lose the flower.”

“I like the flower!” 

Draco glared, and Vane put on the purple dress, which looked just as appalling off the hanger, even without the flower. The girl huffed at her reflection. “The skirt’s too long.”

“Then wear the gold.” Draco eyed the door nervously.

“I wore gold last time, and Cho will …"

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake._ Draco strode to the wardrobe and began slamming hangers to the left, rejecting dress after dress. They were all gaudy horrors except for a single …

“Here,” he said, throwing a wad of pale blue silk at her. “Put this on and get out.”

Vane giggled. “Are you serious? It’s not even mi—”

 _“Put … it … on.”_ Draco was finished with girl time. “Now, or you can go to London in just your knickers.”

His face must have been a sight, because Vane scrambled into the blue dress without another word, shoving her feet into sequined purple heels and picking up a matching bag. Draco changed her ribbon from pink to silver, then let out the dress’ too-tight waist. After years of living like a barbarian at Hogwarts without a personal elf, he was adept at tailoring spells, even with a balky wand. 

“This dress is awfully plain,” Vane complained, fussing with the skirt. The bodice was too big, but Draco couldn’t be arsed to care. Typical woman, buying clothing for the figure she wanted rather than the one she had. Vane looked almost passable, except for those ridiculous heels.

Draco practically shoved her out the door. Was all this piffle even worth it? But then he thought about waving his wand and Vane appearing in his bed, and even better, the girl Vanishing again. It was either cast the spell, court disaster every day or end this silly liaison altogether. 

Standing before the red-and-gold bed, he took a deep breath and gripped his wand. He’d already cast the spell on his own bed, effectively transforming it into a Vanishing Cabinet. His hawthorn wand, for once, had performed perfectly. He only had to cast the same spell on this bed to connect the two. 

He raised his wand, and for an instant he was back in Sixth Year, in the Room of Requirement, choking on his fear, blood pounding and sweat pouring down his back. His breath sounded harsh and ragged in his ears. Were all Gryffindor rooms this bright and peaceful? With chirping birds and sunlight pouring through the wide window? It was very distracting. 

Draco loosened his grip on the wand with an effort. _Take it_ _easy._ This spell required a light hand. Aggressive or sloppy wandwork could cause serious damage, especially with the special amendments he’d incorporated. He closed the heavy red bed hangings with a swish of his wand, then took another deep breath.

“ _Harmonia Nectere Passus, Tempus …”_

… And his heart stopped when an orange blur streaked out from under the bed. Draco turned, wand outstretched, to see a huge cat leap onto the room's window seat and eye him malevolently. The cat was bushy and blindingly orange, with a squashed face and tufted ears. It hissed again, its bottle-brush tail lashing in anger. Somehow, he knew the animal wasn’t Vane’s. 

_“Petrificus Totalus,”_ Draco snapped. Again, his wand responded, and the cat fell onto the seat with a thud. The wizard snickered and turned back to the bed. 

_Harmonia Nectere Passus._ Harmony. Connection. Draco knew he was acting mental, using powerful, dangerous magic for a silly purpose, taking foolish risks. But then nothing about his life had been rational or balanced or prudent. He’d lived a life of extremes for as long as he could remember, a constant battle to bend the world to the Malfoy will. 

That will, of course, had led his family to utter failure and defeat, and while Draco was grateful that his side lost, that didn’t mean he had to enjoy it. Reduced to a small, mean state, trapped at school with a lunatic roommate, accomplishing nothing of note, Vane was his sole release and if keeping her required a few waves of a wand toward an obliging box of nailed maplewood, well then that was what he would do. 

Creating a Vanishing Cabinet, after all, was far easier than repairing one. Draco had added a few small adjustments to the beds as well, additional calibrations of space and time beneath the grain of the wood. He’d perfected the charms at Malfoy Manor after returning from Azkaban to find Aurors infesting the place, watching his every move. To elude them, Draco began creating Vanishing Cabinets (and Vanishing Cupboards and Vanishing Wardrobes, even a Vanishing Grandfather Clock). Layering spells over this bed was child’s play to a wizard with his powers.

 _And yet …_ Something about this bed stilled his hand. The pristine, oddly inviting piece of furniture resonated with an unfamiliar magic _._ A rare voice of reason spoke up softly: _Do you really want to do this, Draco?_

_Yes._ He shook off the voice and raised his wand again. 

“ _Harmonia Nectere Passus,”_ he repeated hoarsely, but that was just the beginning of the spell. His temporal modifications required additional words and precise wandwork. _“Tempus Nectere, Abito Nectere, Regressus Nectere … luna et stellae circulo …”_ It was a spell of time and movement, of moon and planets and stars. Moving in perfect unison toward a …

Draco completed the charm and lowered his wand, panting. The four wooden bedposts, carved with lions, glimmered and trembled. He could almost see movement and shadows within the crimson hangings. Excellent. 

Giving his wand an approving look, he tucked it into his pocket. Then he picked up his broom and released the cat from its Body-Bind, barely dodging the ungrateful beast as it leaped at him yowling, claws outstretched. He had to Stun the animal so he could escape out the window. Disillusioning himself and his broom, Draco flew away from Gryffindor Tower, wondering what madwoman would keep such a horrid creature. 

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
  


Later that night, Draco sat cross-legged on his bed, clad only in black silk boxers. He held his pocket watch in one hand and wand in the other. The open watch glowed softly, lighting the enclosed space. The silver brocade bed curtains were tightly closed, stiff with protective wards and spells that also prevented any light or sound from escaping. Tennant was out anyway, busy with his usual unsavory pursuits.

He checked the watch, where the words “Romilda Vane, 10 p.m.” were etched inside the lid. One minute, twenty seconds. 

The reasonable voice was back, whispering in Draco’s mind: _You don’t have to do this._ He was in control. Nobody was breathing down his neck this time, threatening his family. He could put his wand and watch away and just go to sleep. It might not work anyway; his instructions to Vane had been hurried and vague, and she’d likely find a way to bollox it up.

But the overwhelming need to do _something_ drowned out the sensible voice. They all thought Draco was down. They thought he was beaten. Well, he wasn’t. This small rebellion was perhaps beneath him, but it was _his_ rebellion. He would take what he wanted under all their noses and no one would deny him. Not even himself. 

Draco sat up straight and raised his wand. He’d better be prompt or Vane might get impatient, possibly even come down to the dungeons to complain. Gryffindors were capable of anything. Draco waved his wand in a precise circle just as the watch’s minute hand ticked on the 12: _“Venio Harmonia!”_

There was a flash, and everything went dark. A smothering weight fell upon him and a blunt object struck his head. Draco thrashed desperately, gasping for air and trying to free himself. His heart was in his throat, he clutched his wand—was the spell too strong? Did the bed collapse?

His head popped free and Draco took gulping breaths _. “Tempus,”_ he gasped. The pocket watch snapped open again, lighting the space, and he saw he was buried in Gryffindor bedding: blankets, pillows, the heavy red coverlet. The watch had fallen on its side between two pillows. 

Draco cursed and rubbed his head, tossing aside a book. How could he be so stupid? The cupboards and cabinets he’d used in Malfoy Manor had been empty, so the only object passing between them had been himself. Of course the bed would transport its entire contents …

Entire contents. Draco dug through the bedding, but Vane wasn’t there. The silly bint hadn’t even been in the bed—there was no other explanation. He kicked the book against the bed curtains hanging as solidly as a stone wall. The book lay crumpled, its spine torn.

Had something gone wrong with the spell’s time element? Draco had structured the enchantment so the two beds’ connections only worked between 10 and 11 p.m. He simply wasn’t comfortable with an always-open conduit between the Slytherin dungeons and Gryffindor Tower, however secret. An hour was more than enough time. 

No, it had to be Vane’s fault. She was probably still out in Diagon Alley. Draco scowled; he’d wait a half-hour, then try again. 

Lying back on the piles of bedding, he picked up the heavy book that had nearly brained him and riffled through it. “The Predictions of Tycho Dodonus.” _More Divination rubbish._ The old goat’s prophecies started out hopeful, then turned darker through the years with the final prediction thundering on about doomed souls sinking into molten fire. The inky figures writhing on page 298 lovingly recorded every detail.

He pushed the book away again, more disturbed by the image than he cared to admit, and burrowed into the soft red coverlet. That light, flowery smell surrounded him. Draco's breathing slowed further and his eyes fluttered shut.

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


_Clouds, billowing clouds ... lightening flashes green._

_A dry, slithering sound, a venomous hiss …_

_Screams and more screams._

_A dark shape in the clouds uncoils, head bobbing, smelling of death:_

_“Yesssssss …”_

_The scene shifts ... clouds and shapes fade into darkness._

_Softness, warmth … safety …_

Safety?

Draco opened his eyes to see the dark outlines of pillows and bedding piled about him. He felt wonderfully warm, a rare sensation in the dungeons. His cheek was pressed against soft hair, his arms wrapped around something even softer and more seductive. _She’s here._

His sleep-fogged mind tried to make sense of it; had the spell been that strong, so strong that she had only to enter the bed to be brought to him? No matter, she was here now. Draco had never before woken with another person. It hadn’t been part of the plan. 

_I love magic,_ he thought dreamily, pulling the pliant body closer. He heard a low breathy murmur and allowed his lips to brush the silky skin below her ear. _So warm._ Still half asleep, Draco shifted his body and bent his head again, his lips tracing a path along her jawline, turning her toward him, seeking her mouth. His hands slid up her bare arms, finding thin straps to ease off her shoulders. 

Had her skin always felt like this? Was this part of his dream? The skin under his hands and mouth was so smooth, tasted so intoxicating. How could he not remember? His tongue found the pulse in her throat, drawing another murmur. He shifted again and captured her lips with his. So sweet, had she always tasted like this …?

The body stiffened under his touch, and Draco released her lips. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “You’re with me.” 

He touched his mouth to hers again, but the body beneath him rolled out of his hold, and a sharp knee to the stomach made him gasp.

“Somehow,” Hermione Granger said, “I am not reassured.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: Draco gets an eyeful. And earful.


End file.
